


Fallen Chimneys

by kijilinn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Disassociation, F/M, Hunting, Reader Insert, Shapeshifters - Freeform, disorientation, is the world real?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-06-03 03:22:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6594586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kijilinn/pseuds/kijilinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You live a charmed life, riding with the Winchesters and hunting what goes bump in the night. But you can't shake the feeling that something is wrong, just on the edges of your consciousness. What is real? And does it matter, when you spend your days beside men you trust and your nights in Dean's arms?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Triggers: Disassociation, uncertainty if the world is real, hallucinations.
> 
> Title is taken from "What is Home?" by the Black Crowes.

                You open your eyes. But it’s hard to tell if they’re open. The darkness is so complete. No, your eyes are open. You can tell. There’s a shadow on the far wall, something like the angles of a doorway or a window. There’s light somewhere.

                Your arms ache. You are dangling from something above you, wrists bound. Your hands are numb, cold, but your shoulders and back are on fire. You have been here for a while. You can push up with your feet, though, easing the stress on your joints and back. It gives some relief from the fire, but it isn’t long before your fingers prickle with pins and needles. Numbness was almost better.

                How did you get here? You can’t remember. Everything is a fog now. You can hear other movement, though, the creak of wood and rope and the soft moans of someone in pain. You can’t see them, but you know you aren’t alone in here.

                “Oh, baby,” a sweet, soft voice says in your ear and you freeze. “You awake? I’m sorry, sweetie.” You feel a hand against your neck, then a sharp pain as something sinks deeper into your skin. “I’ll try not to let you go so long next time.”

                The voice fades away…

 

                You open your eyes and there is sunshine. Sunshine streams in through the thin curtains of a roadside motel. Someone didn’t pull the black-out shades last night. You rub the heels of your hands into your eyes and groan, still disoriented from the dream. The dream of pain and darkness.

                “You okay, babe?” A hand touches your back, startling you at first, until you look back and see Dean blinking blearily at you from the pillow.

                “Yeah,” you say, blinking and shaking your head. “Just… a dream.”

                He smiles and squirms through the blankets to pull you closer to him again. “Yeah? Good dream or bad dream?”

                “Shitty,” you admit as you sink back into his arms. He brushes your hair back from your face, smiles down at you. “Really dark and I think I was tied up.”

                “Really,” Dean says, a playful edge in his voice. You give him a glare and he grins, leaning in to kiss you quickly. “You ready for coffee or you need to sleep some more?”

                “Maybe a little longer,” you admit as you stretch back into the bed.

                “My kind of answer,” Dean smiles as he leans in to kiss you again. His lips are warm and soft, just the right balance of firmness and wetness against yours. You can’t remember exactly how you got here, but the morning is shaping up just perfectly.

                You and Dean are just settling into a happy pattern of kissing and caressing when a fist pounds sharply on the door. You jump and Dean mutters under his breath before looking up and shouting, “Later, Sam.”

                “No time,” Sam’s voice comes from the other side of the door. “There’s been another sighting on the outskirts of town. Just came down the police scanner. If we get over there, we might be able to catch whatever this thing is.”

                Dean rests his head on your shoulder for a second with a low, irritated growl, then looks up into your eyes. “Take a raincheck, beautiful?”

                “Of course,” you whisper back, breathless. You aren’t entirely sure if that raincheck is likely to be valid anytime soon, but you hold your breath and hope. “You be gone long?”

                “Gone?” Dean asks in surprise as he pulls himself out of the bed and hunts for his clothes. “Aren’t you coming? I mean, I can see why you’d rather hide out here instead of hunting down a skinwalker. Slimy bastards. But we could really use your eyes and your gun out there.”

                You’re a hunter. You hunt with Dean and Sam. Relief sweeps through you and you swing your feet out of the bed, ready to find some clothes and kick some skinwalker tail. “No, just wondering if you think it’ll be a short trip,” you say quickly to cover your own apparent lack of memory of the situation. You find your jeans and some underwear, a bra and a flannel shirt. As you assemble your clothing, you also find a pair of boots in your size that you don’t remember owning, a boot knife stuck into the top of one of them, and a pistol stuffed into the other. When you put the boots on, they hug your feet like old friends, perfectly broken to your feet, and the gun is familiar in your hand.

                “As fast as any skinwalker hunt is,” Dean shrugs into his blue flannel and reaches for his leather jacket. “We’ll try to keep it quick. I mean, I haven’t even had breakfast yet.” He smiles at you knowingly and you can tell he’s not talking about eggs and bacon. “Got your game face on, babe?”

                You try not to think about how you just woke up and haven’t had a chance to wash your face or reapply any makeup. Dean obviously thinks you look just fine from the way he’s smiling, so you nod and follow him to the door, tucking the pistol into the back waistband of your jeans. Dean cups your butt quickly as he holds the door for you and grins when you jump, then escorts you to the Impala, where Sam is already sitting shotgun, looking impatient.

                As you climb into the back seat, Sam cranes himself around to look at you, “The police scanner said there was another break-in about three miles from here, a house on the foster registry just like the others. It’s probably our shifter.”

                The Impala rocks as Dean drops himself into the driver’s seat and slams the door. He throws the car into gear and backs out of his parking space. “So, we go in around the edges, see if we can catch ‘em in the act. Dodge the fuzz and hope they don’t notice us.”

                “Do you want to try to talk to the family?” Sam asks. “Or should we just go for the bushes, hunt for shed skin?”

                “With the police so close,” you put in quickly, “it seems like we should stay to the sidelines for now. If we can find who the shifter’s switched from, maybe we can see who he’s shifted to.”

                “Good plan,” Dean nods as he edges out onto the street in front of the motel and merges into traffic.

                You settle in to the back seat and watch the scenery go by while Sam and Dean discuss the facts of the case so far. You find yourself wondering why you can’t remember how you got here, why your obviously intimate relationship with Dean is a blur. As you think about these things, you drift back into a light doze.

                There is someone in the road.

                You scream and bolt upright, “DEAN, look out!”

                Dean swears and grabs the steering wheel, swerving the Impala sharply to the right and then overcompensating back to the left to keep from leaving the road entirely. “What?” he cries and Sam reaches over the seat to touch your arm reassuringly. “What was it?”

                “I…” You are suddenly not sure that you saw anything. Maybe that figure was an illusion, a figment from that dark dream you woke up from this morning. There doesn’t seem to be anything in the road now, nor anything on the shoulder. You crane your neck to look through the back window. You can see the skid marks from the Impala’s tires, but nothing else. “I thought I saw something.”

                “What was it?” Dean repeats, obviously clenching the steering wheel in a death grip. His knuckles are white.

                Did you really see something? Was there anything there?

                Did you really see a figure, weeping and bloody, dangling from her arms?

 

                Police are crawling all over the house when Dean pulls around the corner and allows you and Sam a slow drive-by of the scene. From the intensity of the officers’ focus, it looks like more than just a break-in. As you point this out to the Winchesters, an ambulance pulls up, sirens off but lights flashing. “They’ve got bodies,” Sam says quietly.

                “Son of a bitch,” Dean sighs. “Man, I am sick of bodies. Always means there’s something slimier around.” He finds a place to park a few blocks away with decent coverage from some towering lilac bushes. “Y/N, you want to play agent or mole?”

                After the nightmare last night and the weirdness since, you have a distinct feeling that you’d rather be close to people, so you say quickly, “Agent.”

                “Sammy’s the mole,” Dean says with a smile and pats his brother on the shoulder. Sam makes a face, then pulls ID wallets out of the glove compartment.

                He checks them over, then hands you one and another to Dean, “US Marshals this time, folks. Since the suits are at the cleaners.” Sam tucks the third ID wallet into an inner pocket of his jacket and climbs out of the Impala. “I’ll circle around the block, check the alleys, and meet you guys back here.”

                “Sounds good, Agent Gorman,” Dean nods. Sam gives him one of those long-suffering looks, then turns and jogs down the alley and out of sight. Dean grins after him, then checks your ID, “Agents Robinson and Ford ride again.”

                “After you,” you say as you wriggle out of the back seat and close the door of the Impala.

                Dean pulls you in for a quick kiss and an equally quick butt-grope before heading down the street along the sidewalk. “Have I told you recently that I love your butt in those jeans?”

                “Probably,” you smile.

                “Because, yow.”

                As you come up the sidewalk in front of the house, the police are arguing with two people in suits. “Sounds like trouble,” you murmur.

                “I am telling you, Agents, we have got this crime scene utterly under control!” the police officer is all but shouting into the face of a tall, strong-jawed woman with coppery skin and dark, straight hair pulled into a businesslike bun at the base of her neck.

                “If you wish to speak with my lieutenant,” she replies in an even, immaculately controlled contralto voice, “here is her card. But we have our orders.”

                “God damned FBI,” the officer snarls and snaps the card out of the woman’s hand. He stomps off and pulls his cell phone out to call the number printed there.

                Once he’s gone, the woman turns to face her partner, an older man with a gruff appearance toned down by careful combing of a wild mane of grey and black hair. They speak together in low voices for a second before the man tilts his head and gives an ironic smile, “We’ve got company.”

                As the woman turns to face you, Dean starts to smile, “Thalia. And is that Nick?”

                “Dean,” the woman says without smiling, but she offers Dean her hand and gives you a slight incline of her head, clearly respectful, “Y/N. I would assume that Sam is circling around back. He may run into Regan back there. Hopefully they won’t kill each other in the process.”

                Dean shakes her hand firmly, “And I guess Maddie’s got the phones, then.” He pauses and looks at you, “You remember Thalia Faust and Nick Sylva, from Maddie’s crew? They usually take cases farther South. I’m surprised to see you guys this far West.”

                The names and faces are unfamiliar to you, but you smile and shake hands with these people just the same. They are obviously hunters, using the same kind of false telephone system the Winchesters use to confirm government credentials.

                “You’re following the skinwalker?” Thalia asks Dean.

                “Yeah, Sam said there was chatter on the police frequencies so we thought we’d take a look.”

                The tall woman’s jaw clenches slightly and she nods, “I thought as much. We have this end covered, though. Maybe you should… find something else?” Her smile is just barely condescending, with an undertone of “run along, children.”

                Dean bristles and you can’t help but stand next to him, chin lifted defiantly. “We’ve been working this case for a week, Thalia. Why should we back off? Just because you came waltzing in, all noble and proud…”

                Something about the way he says this makes Thalia’s dark eyes look even darker and you can practically feel the tension in the air. “Back away from this, Winchester,” she says in a tone so menacing that her partner looks nervous.

                “Look, Thali,” Nick says, his voice low and rumbling, full of teddy bears and friendly barbecues. “Can’t we all work together on this? We know the Winchesters are good people. Maddie’s worked with them before, we’ve worked with them. And they have been on this one longer than we have. We don’t know the ground as well.” The older man puts a hand on Thalia’s arm, gentle and wary. “There’s no reason to fight about it. More eyes mean a better chance the bastard won’t slip away.”

                Thalia and Nick exchange a long, tense look before she sighs and puts her hands up, “Fine, fine. Let’s see how Maddie did with the local cops and go from there.” She gives you and Dean a slow once-over, then says, “Truce?”

                Dean looks at you and shrugs, “It’s good with us if it’s good with you.” You nod agreement.

                The local officer is returning now, tapping his cell phone against his hip in an obviously irritated manner. “Alright, Agent Uzlet. Your credentials check out with the agency.” He pauses and gives you and Dean an uncomfortable look. “Can I help YOU folks?”

                “Plainclothes agents,” Thalia says smoothly. “Under my direction. Agents Smith and Trocar.” Dean flips open his ID badge quickly enough that no name can be seen at a distance and you do the same. “You two go check the building,” she says to you, pointing toward the house. “You know what we’re looking for.”

                Dean inclines his head toward Thalia and Nick and the two of you head toward the house. As you walk away, you hear Nick intone softly, “Keep an eye out for Regan. She’s been jumpy lately.” You nod like this means something to you, wondering who Regan is and how dangerous she might be to someone Sam’s size.

                Inside the house, crime scene investigators are still bustling around the scene. The front room of the little home is trashed, furniture upended, lamps thrown against walls, a vase of flowers broken in the corner. The LCD television has been pulled down and shattered against the floor and there is blood smeared on the walls leading into another room. Dean frowns as he walks through, following the trail of blood. You pause in the living room and crouch to look at the debris on the floor more closely. There is some bloody slime under one of the broken chairs. “Hey, Smith,” you call after Dean.

                “Yeah?” he comes back around the corner and crouches next to you. “What did you find?”

                You point out the slime, “Walker skin?”

                Dean frowns and pulls a pen out of the inside of his jacket, reaching to poke at the slime experimentally. “No… looks wrong. What is this shit?”

                “They’ve got a cat.” Dean jumps a little and you both look back to see Sam walking in through one of the other doors. He is holding an ice pack on his forehead and his expression is sheepish. “Maddie’s crew is here.”

                “Yeah, we saw Thalia and Nick out front,” Dean agrees, standing up and peering at Sam. “You find Regan?”

                “She found me before I found her,” Sam sighs, looking embarrassed. “I forgot she was such a good shot with a rock.” He winces as Dean pulls the ice pack away to study the lump on his brother’s forehead. “I’m fine, Dean. Seriously.”

                Dean tightens his jaw, then lets Sam go with a sigh, “Fine. What was that about a cat?”

                “The goop on the floor,” Sam elaborates, pointing. “There’s more of it upstairs. Apparently, they have a cat with digestive problems. It’s been throwing up all over the house from stress, I guess.”

                “Poor baby!” you gasp. “Is it around still?”

                “I think it’s upstairs in one of the bedrooms.”

                Before Sam or Dean can protest, you are headed up the stairs into the second floor of the house, crooning softly for the distressed kitty. You see a flash of movement in one of the bedroom doors and crouch low, calling in, “Poor baby… you okay?” The bedroom looks like a spare room, the bed tidily made up with several additional decorative pillows. Under the bed, feline eyes flash back at you. You sit beside the door, legs crossed and call again, putting one hand on the floor and looking away to give the cat some space. After a few moments, you feel a damp nose on the back of your fingers and the tickly brush of whiskers. When you peek back down, you see that the cat is little more than a kitten, probably not even a year old. Long-haired brown tabby with a brilliantly white bib, the cat is sniffing the back of your hand carefully and then begins to purr. “There’s a good baby,” you whisper and turn your hand over, letting the cat sniff your palm instead. Finally, the cat is butting into your hand and leaning into your strokes and scratching.  

                “Doctor Doolittle, you done?” Dean is leaning against the door frame, looking amused.

                The cat looks up at him, flattens its ears and hisses before vanishing back under the bed.

                “Dean, you fuckwad, you scared him.” You crouch and try to talk the cat back out, but all you can see is a pair of reflective eyes over the brush of a fluffy tabby tail. “He was starting to relax again.”

                Dean sighs, “I’m sorry, babe, but we need to get going. Thalia and the others are about ready to compare notes on what we’ve found. They’re offering breakfast at IHOP and I’m not missing out on that.”

                You look up at Dean and feel an odd sense of weight at the back of your mind. “Let me try to get the cat out, first. I think it’s important.”

                He shrugs and nods, “Whatever you need to do, babe. We’ll be back at the car when you’re ready, but remember, I still haven’t had coffee.” He bends down and kisses the top of your head before heading back down the stairs.

                You flop down onto your belly and whisper to the tabby, “It’s okay, baby. He didn’t mean it. Come back, honey. It’s okay.” It doesn’t take too long once you’re alone for the cat to crawl back out from under the bed and start marking against your face, purring again. He’s plenty friendly, so you find it a little odd that no one in the family has come back to collect him since the chaos last night. You stroke the soft, silky fur and smile as the cat rubs up against your forehead and licks your eyebrows. “You gonna come with me, sweetheart?” you whisper as you rock back into a sitting position. With hands held out, you continue to talk to the cat and stroke his fur until you can gently edge your hands up under the fluffy belly and scoop him against your chest. “There you go, baby. That’s right.” He squirms a little, then settles in, still purring. He lets you carry him down the stairs and through the house.

                At the front door, one of the crime scene investigators stops you, “You taking the cat?”

                “Yeah, does he need an evidence tag?”

                “Here.” The investigator pulls a manila tag out of a pocket, scribbles some notes on the back, signs it, then asks you, “Name?”

                “Y/N Trocar, Special Agent for the FBI.”

                “Badge number?”

                You rattle off a string of numbers and letters that could pass as a badge number if someone doesn’t run it through a database. “Sign here,” the investigator says, pointing to the lower corner and handing you the pen. You manage to make a few scribbles that could pass for a signature, then again on his index sheet. “Have fun with your kitty,” he says, handing you the manila evidence tag and walking back inside.

                “That was easy,” you say to the cat as you walk down the street to where the Impala is parked. Sam is folded into the back seat and Dean is in the driver’s seat, waiting for you. You settle into the front seat and the tabby gives Dean a narrow, distrustful glare before tucking himself into your arm, face buried in the crook of your elbow. “We’re ready.”

                Dean looks at you for a moment, then shakes his head, “Did we just steal a cat from a crime scene?”

                “Because it was vomiting bloody goop all over the house?” Sam puts in with raised eyebrows.

                “He’s an important witness,” you inform them firmly as you settle back into the seat and pull the seatbelt down across your chest. “And a trauma victim. He needs time to adjust before he can give us the evidence we need.”

                Dean just shakes his head as he puts the Impala in gear and pulls out onto the road again. “It just better not pee in my car.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean, Sam, and the reader meet up with the other team of hunters to discuss the unfolding case.

The drive to International House of Pancakes doesn't take long, especially with Sam calling out directions from the back seat. Your new friend has almost fallen asleep in your arms by the time Dean pulls the Impala into the parking lot beside a 1970 Corvette and a Subaru hatchback. "Thalia and Regan must be driving," Dean observes as he climbs out of the Impala and pops the seat forward to let Sam out. 

Sam glances over the cars and raises an eyebrow, "What does Nick drive?" 

"The 'vette is Nick's, but there's no way Thalia's going to let him drive." 

You smile as you settle the cat in your seat and close the door. "Is she really that badass?" 

Dean looks at you for a long moment, then smiles, a quick, fleeting expression. "Maddie is the boss. Thali's the boss's girlfriend. And Maddie doesn't hit the field much when she can call the shots from a private library. So Thalia's in charge and she hates the way Nick drives." 

You raise an eyebrow, "Is that bitterness I hear, Dean?" 

He looks away and closes the Impala's door as he starts toward the restaurant. "Why would I be bitter?" Sam makes eye contact with you and rolls his eyes before following.  

"And he says I'm the one who gets all butthurt about girls," Sam murmurs as you catch up to him.  

"What happened?" 

He glances down at you, "Don't you remember? Maddie was Dean's girlfriend years ago. Worked with Bobby, the whole nine yards. But she went away to grad school and met Thalia and hasn't looked at Dean since. I mean, I know it happened before we met you, but he's talked about it, right?" 

Scrambling to cover your missing consciousness, you blink a little overdramatically, "Oh, this is THAT Thalia?" 

"We don't know many," Sam smiles and holds the door open for you. 

Inside, IHOP is mostly empty. You see that Dean has joined Thalia, Nick, and a much smaller woman with a petite, fairy-like face and eyes that looked like they would strip flesh from bone. Sam follows you through the weaving tables and slides into the booth next to you. "What did you find?" Sam asks. 

"One of the neighbors had skinwalker slop in the back yard," Thalia says. "He's shed and moved on again. The bodies in the house were the owner and his daughter. His wife is missing, so the police are looking for her. Maddie agrees that we probably should be, too." She sips coffee from a mug and makes a face before adding more cream. "How about you?" 

Dean shrugs, "We’ve got the cat." 

Nick's eyes light up, "You got her out?" Thalia looks unimpressed. 

"Him," you correct. 

"My girl gets what she wants," Dean says smugly, drawing rolled eyes from the pixie-faced girl and Sam both.  

"Like you had anything to do with it," you snort and Thalia grins. "He's dozing in the Impala." 

"I tried but he wouldn't come to me," Nick sighs regretfully. For all his gruff appearance and biker-bar appeal, Nike is clearly a soft-hearted man and obviously fond of cats. He looks at Thalia suddenly, face alight.  

Before he can say anything, she rolls her eyes and groans, "Fine, go see the cat, Nick." She doesn't have to say it twice because the big man has already vanished from the table with a delighted giggle. "I don't know what Maddie sees in him," Thalia sighs.  

You give her a glare. "I do. He loves cats. And it seems like he thinks some things in life are worth enjoying." Thalia meets your glare with raised eyebrows, then smiles slowly. You lift your chin defiantly. 

"Don't let this one get away, Dean," Thalia grins. "I like her." 

Dean grumbles a little, but catches your eye with a smile. "I do, too." 

The waiter takes your orders, half of which he doesn't seem to so much write down as memorize, then rushes back to the kitchen. Dean shifts his chair closer to your side of the bench and slides one arm around your waist to kiss your cheek. "Get 'er, tiger," he whispers in your ear with a grin. 

You grin back at him, "She seems a little stiff." 

"That's just Thali," he replies. "She's always little stiff around me." The waiter comes back with more coffee and water before giving you and Dean both a long, almost disappointed look and heading back into the kitchen. Dean puts his chin on your shoulder and sighs, eyes closed. "Finally, coffee." He wraps his free hand around a mug and holds it still while Sam fills it, then his own, and refills Thalia's.  

Just as the waiter is bringing platters of pancakes, waffles, bacon, sausage, and eggs, Nick returns from the parking lot, eyes bright and dress shirt covered in brown and white cat hair. "He's a lover," he says to you as he squashes himself into the booth beside Regan. The pixie-faced girl rolls her eyes and scoots over to give the big hunter more room. "He was awake when I came up and snuggled like crazy." 

"He was having some kind of tummy issues all over that house," Sam adds. "We're hoping he doesn't keep it up in the car." 

"My poor baby," Dean whines and you elbow him playfully.  

"What kind of tummy issues?" Regan asks, suddenly engaged. She leans forward to make eye contact with Sam. "Vomiting? Bile?" Her expression doesn't change much, but the intensity of her gaze is impressive. 

"Bloody bile," Sam confirms. Thalia stops with a forkful of pancake halfway to her mouth and glares at both of them. "Mostly little spots all over the house." 

"I saw those," Thalia says. Her expression is more focused now, curious. "What are you thinking?" 

"I'm wondering if maybe it has something to do with the skinwalker," says Sam. "The cat seemed really freaked out when Y/N went looking for him, but not sick." He stabs a fork into his eggs and shovels some into his mouth. "So if he's not sick, but is responding negatively to the skinwalker, we might be able to use him to track it." 

"You're going to use that poor cat like a canary in a mine?" Regan demands, her eyes flinty.  

Sam opens his mouth, takes a look at Regan's face, and closes it again, waving one finger vaguely in the air over his plate. He tries to catch Dean's eye, but his brother shakes his head and resumes chewing a slice of bacon, "Don't look at me, dude. I don't know shit about cats." 

"More like we're taking care of him and hoping he'll help us find the skinwalker," you say, taking mercy on Sam. "Or... something." 

"You just wanted a cat," Sam says and you shrug, admitting the truth. 

"How do you people find your way around?" Thalia wonders, her head tilted to the side. 

"Really good GPS," says Sam. 

Regan sits back in her bench, arms crossed over her chest as she considers Sam's expression. "If he's sick, he needs a vet. If he's reacting negatively to a skinwalker, we need to keep him safe, not drag him all over, shoving him into corners to see if he throws up." 

"I'm going to take care of him!" you protest. "I didn't JUST want a cat. I want to make sure he's not being neglected while the police are busy. Until someone from the family comes for him." 

"And if nobody comes?" Regan raises an eyebrow. 

"Then..." You sneak a peek at Dean's expression, but he is trying very hard to destroy his plate of pancakes and bacon without meeting your eyes. "Then I'll keep him." 

"On the road?" 

"He'll be fine. He seems like a pretty good traveler." 

Regan's expression is critical and she shakes her head slowly, "Do whatever you want, I guess. Just make sure you're doing what's best for him, not yourself." 

 

As you pay your checks and tumble out to the various cars, Nick stops by the side of the Impala to tap the glass gently and smile in at the cat. Your furry friend is standing on his hind legs and pawing vigorously at the glass with both front paws. You grin and Nick looks up at you, "He's really a sweet cat. I hope he helps us find the skinwalker without it hurting him." 

"Me, too." You smile at Nick and the big man nods to you before climbing into the driver's seat of the Subaru. Regan is behind the wheel of the Corvette and Thalia is settling into the passenger seat beside her. Sam is in the process of accordianing himself into the back seat of the Impala while Dean waits, holding the door and a teetering stack of to-go boxes. You open the door and scoop up the cat with a smooth motion before glancing back at Nick. He raises two fingers to you briefly as he starts the Subaru and pulls out after Thalia and Regan's Corvette. You study the cat, who is purring against your cheek and snuggling into your chest happily. "I hope you're okay, buddy." 

"He didn't poop or pee," Sam announces. "But there is cat hair kind of everywhere." 

"Oh, baby," sighs Dean. "Don't worry, we'll get you to a car wash soon." 

You smile and slide into the passenger seat with the cat on your lap. He curls up there and continues to purr, watching Dean's stack of Styrofoam containers. "You're going to share some of that with him, right?" 

Dean does a double-take and glares at the cat, "I don't think pancakes are good for cats." 

"The bacon?" 

"It's fatty." 

"Then it's not good for you, either." 

"I get more exercise." Dean hands the to-go boxes back over the seat to Sam, then closes the driver's side door and starts the engine.  

"Only barely," mumbles Sam. Dean glares at him in the mirror, then pulls the car onto the highway. You feel a tap on your shoulder just before the cat clambers up and practically flings himself at Sam, who is holding out a broken piece of bacon.  

"That better have come out of your box," Dean growls. "Do you have that thing set up to pull in the police scanner yet?"  

Sam makes a face, obviously distracted by the squirming, purring cat while he tries to focus on Dean's words. "What? No, not yet. I need wifi for it anyway. Skinwalkers like sewers, though. Maybe we should check the local sewer outlets?" 

"Good plan," Dean agrees, then glances at you. "Could you look those up, babe?" 

"Sure." You pull out your cell phone and do a local search for sewer access points and local reservoirs. It doesn't take long for a return hit. "There's one about two miles outside the North end of town," you report. "A little reservoir called Big Hill Lake. It connects into the sewers and the water treatment plant." Dean nods and smiles, turning the Impala in the direction you read off. It feels good to have a direction. 

 

You blink awake, wondering if you fell asleep in the Impala. Your head aches, throbbing. Your mouth is dry and your tongue feels gummy and thick. You turn your head, but the Impala is gone. "Dean?" you try to call, but it comes out as a weak rasp that makes you want to retch and cough. 

Somewhere near your feet, you hear a querulous mew, then the thrumming sound of a cat purring. 

What the hell is going on...?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You wake up... and wake up... will you keep waking up?

"Kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty."

Your voice is a weak croak as you call after the purring sound. The cat is still out of your line of sight, but you can still hear it purring. It conjures a strange mingling of images: sitting by a gas fireplace with a long-haired cat curled in your lap; a rotund orange tabby purring beside your head as you sit on a couch watching TV; Dean and Sam talking about arrangements for the evening in the Impala while a cat licks bacon grease from Sam's fingers; the rough flick of a barbed tongue against your lips and the end of your nose, trying to wake you up for breakfast; holding a brown and white tabby against your chest while you watch YouTube on your laptop; the pathetic purr-mew of starving kittens hiding under your house, now grown too large to sneak out the hole in the foundation they crept in through.

"Kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty."

Something brushes your ankle and you try to see down past your chest. With your arms above your head like this, it's impossible to see below your own tattered t-shirt. You can still hear the purring, backed by the raspy breathing of other captives and the creak of old wood and rope. You try to swing one foot. The movement is successful, if you can call a full-body cramp success. Moving your foot sends agony cascading through your body, from your over-extended shoulders and bound wrists to the sagging of your spine. Your feet are just barely on the ground, just enough that you can push up to relieve some of the pressure on your shoulders and chest, but not so much that you can work your wrists enough to free them. Pushing up with your feet also makes it easier to breathe, which is painful enough at the moment.

"Kitty, kitty," you gasp and manage to swallow, working enough saliva down your tongue to make speaking easier. "Kitty, kitty, go get help."

"He's not Lassie." You jerk at the sound of another voice and the motion sends pain lancing through your aching shoulders and arms. You can almost rotate yourself on the ropes, so you wobble in a slow circle until you are facing the direction from which the voice seemed to have drifted. In your slow turn, you get a better look at your surroundings: a dingy barn full of musty, rotting straw. Light slants through the boards of the wall and you can see the rough place where the loft access had been above you before someone boarded it up.

You can also see that you obviously are not alone here. At least four other people are tied by their wrists from loft beams, just as you are. Most of them seem unconscious or barely alive, but there is one set of eyes watching you steadily as you take in your situation. The woman watching you is obviously taller than you, having been ratcheted up at least another five inches from the floor than any other captive. Her face is hard to see in the dim, refracted light, but you can tell that she is dark-skinned and her tangled hair is jet black and short around her face. Once you are facing each other, she jerks a little and winces from the pain in her arms. Her eyes are wide in shock and she searches your face for a moment before saying your name.

"Thalia?" you whisper back.

It is all you manage to get out before something stings your neck again and you are plunged back into blackness.

*******

You bolt awake with a gasp and throw your hands out to the sides. You can move again and taking a deep breath is one of the most beautiful things you can imagine. You are alone in a bed in a motel, a different one from when you last woke up. Confused, you look around slowly until you get your bearings: there is a light coming from under the bathroom door and another bed on the other side of the room from which the soft sounds of someone asleep can be heard. The toilet in the bathroom flushes, then the sink runs for a moment and the light flicks off. You watch the doorway, alert and tense until Dean walks out, his eyes only half open as he staggers across the room toward you. "Oh, did I wake you up?" he murmurs softly and crawls in beside you. "Sorry, babe. Too much beer."

"No, I..." you sigh, then look around one more time. "I just had the weirdest dream." Sam groans softly in his sleep and rolls over. "Where are we?" you whisper to Dean.

"In the morning," Dean pleads in a groggy voice as he tugs you down under the blankets and into his arms. "It's the middle of the night."

You let him pull you down and snuggle into his arms, but you can't bring yourself to sleep just yet. His breathing evens out quickly into unconsciousness and you can hear Sam settling back in, too. You find yourself envious of their easy peace and the trust they have in each other and in you. Nothing could be wrong when you're all together.

But something is wrong and it worries at the back of your mind like a gerbil with itchy gums. You lie in Dean's arms, awake and pensive. Was it a dream? Did you just dream the discomfort of hanging from your wrists? Did you dream seeing Thalia there, just as trapped? Or was this the dream? The bliss of being curled warm and safe beside Dean, of knowing that you are loved and a part of something, that you belong...was that the dream? Dean lets out a soft snort, then squirms closer to you and mumbles into your hair, breathing easily.

If this is the dream, you aren't sure you ever want to wake up.

*******

When morning comes, it feels like you barely slept. Dean and Sam roll themselves out of bed and start the process of getting ready for the day, shaving and brushing teeth, showering and dressing. You stay flopped across the sheets for a few extra minutes, listening to them move around, talking and laughing and squabbling in all the ways you've grown familiar with.

But the dream from last night is still nagging at you. It hasn't been the first time you've found yourself overlapping with that strange, musty-smelling barn, with the pain of dangling from your arms for hours...maybe even days.

Dean throws himself onto the far end of the bed, causing the cheap mattress to toss you partially into the air. "You feelin' okay, beautiful?" he asks you when you land back on the bed with a squeak.

"Just... that dream's bugging me," you admit to him. "The one that woke me up last night."

"Wanna talk about it?" he asks and reaches to rub your back gently, brow furrowed in concern.

His concern is surprising and a little embarrassing, but you smile and nod, telling him all about the strange barn, hanging from the rafters, of hearing the cat mewing and seeing Thalia hanging there, too. When you wrap up, he looks more focused and worried than just generally concerned for your comfort. "Thalia was there?"

You nod, "Strung up just like I was. She knew me, too."

"And she was awake. She would be." Dean stood up and put his hands on his hips for a second, glancing around for something. "Where's that damn phone..."

"But we just saw her yesterday," you protest. "It's not like something happened to her overnight."

Dean pauses to give you a long stare, his expression somewhere between afraid and concerned. "What's the last thing you remember, babe?"

Sam comes out of the bathroom, still drying his hair with a motel towel. "What's going on?"

"Y/N thinks we're still hunting with Thalia's crew."

Sam actually drops his towel in surprise. "What? Was that the skinwalker?"

"I think so." Dean's eyes don't stray from your face, an intense stare of love and worry. Fear starts to curl up your spine and wrap tightly around your chest, making it hard to breathe. You've never seen anyone look at you with such intensity before. "What do you remember, Y/N?"

"I..." You shake your head and curl up tightly, pulling your knees to your chest and leaning your back against the headboard. "We were going to the reservoir outlet. To look for signs of where the skinwalker was going underground."

Sam crouches next to your bed and peers up into your face, his expression just as worried as Dean's. "That was almost five months ago."

You feel like someone dropped the bottom out of your stomach. You feel like you're in free-fall. "What?" you whisper. "That doesn't make any sense. I fell asleep in the car... and then... and then we were here. Five months?" You look around frantically, suddenly remembering. "Where's the cat?"

When you meet Sam's eyes, there is a strange halo effect from the lights and you blink, disoriented for a moment. It seems like you are seeing three versions of him overlaid: this one; a Sam covered in blood and bruises, unconscious on the floor of a barn somewhere; and a Sam watching you fondly as he strokes the back of a brown-and-white tabby. The illusion fragments and you blink again, dispelling the shadow images and refocusing on Sam's worried hazel eyes.

Dean is almost pacing nearby in frustration. "What cat?" he cries, waving his arms.

"Shhh," Sam gives him a murderous look. "Calm down, Dean. You're not helping."

A bubble of emotional energy seems to burst in your chest and you can feel yourself teetering on the edge of sobbing. You hiccup the feeling away and Dean seems to refocus, drops to his knees on the other side of the bed and reaches out to take your hand. "I'm sorry, Y/N. I'm just worried. I don't know what's going on and it's scary. What cat are you talking about?"

"From before," you whisper. "I took him out of the crime scene?"

The brothers exchange glances and Dean licks his lips, "There was no cat, honey. The cops found a dead body of a cat out back, but there wasn't a live cat anywhere at that scene."

"No, there was!" you shout. Panic is rising in your throat and you fist your hands tightly, struggling for control. "There was. A brown and white tabby, about a year old maybe. He was hiding upstairs and had been upchucking all over the house. You were feeding him bacon in the back seat of the car when I fell asleep, Sam."

Sam chews his lip for a moment, then shakes his head. "Y/N, there was no cat."

"Fucking CALL Thalia," you shout, bolting up from the bed to hunt for Dean's phone. "Call her! She'll tell you. Nick was like a kid in a pet store, all excited when I said I talked the cat out from under the bed. Regan was worried that we weren't taking care of him for the right reasons. The cat, I mean, not Nick." You find the phone halfway under the bed, pick it up and shove it at Dean. "Call her. I'm not crazy."

He takes the phone and catches your hand, "I never said you were." Dean reaches and cups your cheek with his palm, leaning in to meet your eyes again. "I'm just worried about you. Obviously something is going on and I want to know what. Please, calm down and talk to me."

"Actually, I think I am going to call Thalia," Sam murmurs. When Dean looks at him, Sam shrugs, "Just in case she's got something to add. Or maybe she can ask Maddie to research lost time for us. Maybe we can piece this together." Dean shrugs and hands the phone to his brother, then returns his focus to you while Sam wanders off, dialing.

"Tell me about your dream," Dean says softly, brushing his thumb over your cheek. "Talk to me. We'll figure this out."

His closeness and tenderness just feels so good, so comforting that you close your eyes and lean into his hand, letting a few tears trickle down your face. It's good to know that he doesn't think you have lost your mind, even if it feels like you're losing it in pieces throughout the conversation. You feel his thumb brush away a tear, then you open your eyes and start talking. You tell him about the dream again, focusing on the details this time: the mustiness of the barn, the cat purring at your feet, what Thalia said to you, about her recognizing you and calling you by name. When you run out of words, Dean pulls you to his chest and hugs you close. "It's okay, babe. It's gonna be okay."

Sam comes back, tapping the cell phone against his chin with a worried expression on his face. "I called Thalia's cell phone and there was no answer. So I called Maddie. No answer." Dean's face goes stony and Sam presses his lips together with a nod. "Yeah. Whatever's going on, it's bad."

"Did you try Regan or Nick? What about Allyson? Or Lana?"

"I tried Regan's number and Nick's, but both went straight to voicemail." Sam ran his hands through his hair and sighed. "It's really bad, Dean. We need to get out there."

Dean rubbed the bridge of his nose and muttered to himself, "Leine's going to kill me if anything happens to Lana." He leans in and kisses your forehead firmly, "Do you want to get a shower before we go? We really need to get started. It's a long way to Virginia."

"Virginia?" you ask, a little bewildered. You get out of the bed and start hunting for your bag and your clothes. It feels just like last time, as if you're out of sync with the you who went to bed last night. "Where are we now?"

"Just outside of Santa Fe," Sam replies as he throws his gear into a duffel. Dean is in the process of doing the same and clearing out the bathroom. "We were following a rumor about a possible werewolf, but this is way bigger. If an entire team of seasoned hunters AND their coordinator has gone silent, we've got a really big problem on our hands."

"Like apocalypse big," Dean adds, stuffing the last of the motel shampoos into his bag. "You guys ready to ride?"

You manage to stumble your way into jeans and a tank top, pull your hair up under a baseball cap and shove your feet into socks and boots before Dean hustles you out the door and into the Impala. Feeling stunned, you squish yourself into the front seat and hug your arms around your stomach, trying to ignore the waves of hunger and confusion washing over you. Dean and Sam seem to have forgotten entirely about breakfast as they discuss quickly how best to get on I-40 from where you stayed the night. When your stomach rumbles audibly, Dean pauses and smiles at you, sheepish. "We'll grab something from Burger King before we hit the interstate, I promise."

"I hope there's coffee," Sam adds.

"And maybe pie," Dean confirms. He leans over to you and kisses you tenderly. "It's going to be okay, Y/N. I promise." He checks over his shoulder to make sure no one is behind him, then peals the Impala out of the parking space and toward the interstate.

Toward Virginia and the missing hunters.

You wonder if you're imagining the faint sound of a cat purring. Or if you really are going crazy.


End file.
